Monsters and Heroes
by Kooncds
Summary: The Belkan War wasn't the first time Osea had been invaded by it's eastern neighbor. Fifty-five years before, Crown Prince Ludwig Model's Belka invaded. This is the story of the soldiers, pilots and sailors on both sides as they fought for their families, their countries, and their lives. The story of how ordinary men became monsters, and the story of how monsters became heroes.
1. Chapter 1

Monsters and Heroes

_An ace combat fan fiction_

AN: Hi everyone. I'm back again with a new fanfic! Now, please, reviews are my life blood, so leave a lot! No flames please. Constructive criticism is encouraged though. I'm always in desperate need of it, anything to create higher quality work. Hell, if you're too lazy to think up a review, here's a premade one. "Oh wow. I like this. I'll keep reading!" Slap that in the review box and send it if you must. Now, enough talk, get reading!

"_War turns heroes into monsters and monsters into heroes…" Anonymous_

_Prologue_

/Fort Drum, Lakes Region/  
/Osean Army Staff Sergeant Claude Grimm/  
/December 21, 1940/

Winter weather in the Lake Regions of Osea was nothing to laugh at. Temperatures could drop down to negative 30 degrees. Strong wind gusts could also threaten the region, and generally made staying there a hazard to one's health as well as miserable. Winter clothing could help, but even through thick wool overcoats, one could feel the miserable temperature.

Claude Grimm, however, was used to temperatures far colder than this. A native of North Belka, winters like these was something he was used to and could deal with. That didn't make him happy about it, not at all.

He stood at over six feet in height, and was well muscled from manual labor and physical conditioning. He always kept his blonde hair cropped short, and due to this it didn't do much to help insulate his head. The 'Pie Tin' style helmet he wore didn't help very much either, leaving his ears fully exposed. He kept bandages around them to protect them, but it was a stop gap measure.

It was times like this this that he really missed his coal scuttle style helmet, back when he had served with the Belkan Army. But any regret stopped there. Deserting that wretched Army was one of the best decisions he ever made, no matter how much trouble it caused him.

However, it was the reason why he was currently freezing in this godforsaken camp. Fort Drum was only a fort in name, it reality, it was a large supply depot. Hastily made quarters surrounded a flag pole, and was straddled by a motor pool, filled only with unarmed trucks and jeeps. The rest of the land was taken up by crates, old ones, shipped from the south and filled with a myriad of weapons and supplies. And of all the jobs he could have, Grimm had to categorize all of it in the manifests.

He slung his Springfield bolt action rifle on his back in order to free his hands. The rifle, along with his helmet, were relics of the previous war, all the way back in 1919. The Osean-Belkan war had spanned 14 years and had led to a worldwide economic depression that had yet to end. His father had served in that war, and had eagerly signed for Grimm to join the Belkan Army. He had become a sergeant and led a squad during the Belkan intervention in the Sapo Civil War, but that was all before his desertion to Osea; and now here he was, a supply sergeant in the Osean Army, universally distrusted because of his national origin, and his status as a deserter. However, most knew not to give him a hard time about it. Claude had a talent for giving people broken noses.

"One crate, Springfield rifles." He droned, signing off on his manifest. Most of the supplies here were meant for the undermanned infantry units that guarded this frozen hell. Considering the mineral wealth of the region, and how badly Belka wanted it, this military buildup made sense. If only, however they actually equipped these troops with modern gear.

"One crate, M1 helmets." Grimm did a double take. These _were _modern helmets. He checked the manifest. They were destined for the actual combat units of his division, 10th Mountain. He was in a supply battalion, and thus did not receive the best gear first. He sighed and moved on.

"12 crates, 7.62mm ammunition." Check.

"4 crates, Mk 2 hand grenades." Check.

"One crate, BAR light machine guns." Check.

The monotony of checking crates continued until he heard a commotion toward the camp gates. Despite being only a rear echelon soldier, Grimm was still the senior sergeant on base, with all the other higher ups staying in relative comfort in the nearby town of Silver Creek.

Grimm looked over toward the parade ground of the base, and saw, strangely enough, a staff car. The passenger side door opened, and a portly, ruddy faced man stepped out. He wore a finely pressed officer's winter uniform, and captain's bars. He immediately began tearing into Grimm's men. Grimm immediately felt anger grow within him. He _hated _officers like this… he already knew this guy would be trouble.

"What is the meaning of this?" He growled, storming over to the officer with his hands balled into fists. The Captain turned to him, his dull grey eyes meeting Grimm's in a battle of wills. "Who would you be?" The Captain asked smugly, not backing away.

Grimm came to a position of mock attention. "Staff Sargent Claude Grimm, Sir! 503rd Support Battalion, senior sergeant of this installation, Sir!" He saluted, his eyes never showing anything but complete malice.

The captain gave a Cheshire grin. "Well, Sergeant Grimm, I am your new superior… Captain John Ford; and I have orders for you! I want you to pack everything up and move it to St. Ark, and I want it done now!" Ford leaned into Grimm's face. "And if I even suspect that you'll run off back to your precious Belka, I'll end you myself."

Grimm growled quietly to himself. He was going to have a lot of problems with this guy, he was already sure of that… but he was a good soldier though, and was bound to obey the orders of those appointed over him.

"Alright, you heard the guy, get moving you miserable pukes!" Grimm growled at the assembled grunts. They didn't stick around to question him. Claude was an experienced NCO, and had two modes. Mean and God-awful mean. His men may not like him, but by god, they respected him.

Building that respect was the hard part. It took while, considering both his heritage and his former allegiance. But the company of soldiers he had on this base respected him now. But whether or not they trusted him was another story… and a very interesting question, to say the least. Claude looked across the barb wire fences of the base, and sighed. Belka. His homeland. His soon to be enemy. The winds of war were blowing from the east. Soon, he would find out the hard way if his men would follow him into the breach.

o-o

/8,000 feet over Neil AFB, en route to St. Ark/  
/Osean Air force Captain Lee Nagase/  
/December 21, 1940/

"Bogies approaching on bearing 280. Small formation. Looks like another Belkan scout flight. Approach bearing 180, escort them out."

Lee Nagase flipped the transmitter switch on his radio, holding his P-40 steady with a single hand. This was the third time this month that his wing had scrambled for an intercept. Every week, almost on the hour, a small flight would ingress; loiter, than egress without causing much trouble.

The regular activity was good for pilot readiness, but it was always tedious, and considering, anything could go wrong. The Belkans were unpredictable.

He spoke into his radio, addressing his flight.

"Wardog 1-2, stay on my wing. Wardog 1-3 and 1-4, climb and provide cover." The young pilot ordered.

The two obsolete fighters trailing him climbed, their P-36's straining against gravity. Wardog 2 pulled onto his wing, the green pilot saluting him from his cockpit.

"So, what do you think about all this Cricket?" Asked Lee. Cricket was Wardog 2's call sign. His real name was Kris O'Hare. He was the son of a steel worker, and had not been able to afford college. The military had given him the chance he needed. It turned out he had a talent for engineering, and was planning to go to an engineering school after his contract was up.

"I think its first class bullshit." Kris muttered, the oath sounding odd in his soft voice. His family was deeply religious, he didn't swear much.

"What do you think Captain?" asked Wardog 3, Aka Dean Davenport. Davenport was the son of an Oured banker. He had entered basic training with a sense of entitlement. It didn't last long. He had quickly gained a reputation for being sharp minded, but loose of tongue. Also, his love affair with his sideburns and jazz made for a very outlandish and eccentric man.

"Hmm… not sure what to think. I guess it's better than having to shoot em down, don't ya think?" Lee replied.

Wardog 4 was characteristically silent.

"Look, we all know what this is. The Belkan air force is testing our readiness. They've been screaming up a storm over mining rights and trespassing back in Oured. They're goanna declare war eventually." Continued Dean.

Anxiety clenched Lee's heart. That was the thing he had been dreading all along. When he was drafted he had eagerly joined the air force, thinking that it would be the best service for peace time. But now with war brewing and the famed Belkan Air Force standing ready, it seemed to be the greatest mistake of his life.

"Well, let's just hope it doesn't come to that." He muttered back, attempting to hide the weakness in his voice. He then retreated into the safety of his own mind, as he often did when something was troubling him. This time was to mull over his own handicaps.

_I can't kill… I'm a pacifist… What did I get myself into… _he thought.

His mind wandered back to is last combat exercise.

_Six Months Earlier…_

_He pulled the aircraft inverted, preforming a quick yoyo maneuver. The fringes of his vision went black as blood was pulled away from his brain. The Allison engine before him snarled, the P-40 making the maneuver with ease. Directly below and in front of him was the instructors P-39. He snapped onto his tail, lining up the crosshairs. _

_ Pull the trigger… pull the trigger… his mind raced. His skin took on a ghostly pallor, and his hands were sweating profusely in his gloves. He couldn't do it. Even in a simple exercise he couldn't do it! _

_ His instructor took the advantage of his hesitation, barrel rolling, dumping speed and landing on Lee's tail. _

_ "Kill." He informed, his voice heavy with disappointment. _

"Hey captain! You still there? Kinda went silent on us." Inquired Kris, drawing Lee from his flashback.

"Yeah, I'm still here. Just going over my maps." He lied easily.

"Whatever man." Kris mumbled.

"Status Report?" Coughed Wardog 4, who had finally broken his silence.

"Why look at that, he does have a voice!" joked Dean.

Lee rolled his eyed, checking his maps for real this time. Lee observed that they were approaching St. Ark. He switched channels on his radio, reporting back to control.

"Wardog 1 to Neil AFB, status on the bogey flight?" He asked.

The radio crackled.

"Continuing on their original heading." Came the quick confirmation.

Lee nodded to himself and relayed the information back to Wardog 4, who merely went by the pseudonym "Inferno".

He accepted Inferno's grunt of gratitude as the most he'll get out of him and continued to watch the skies around them.

"You should be making visual contact now" informed control.

Lee strained his eyes, intently scanning the stark white clouds that enveloped them. His eyes then caught on to a flash of yellow, which grew more and more defined as his flight approached. There, painted against the cloud, were four Belkan fighters. They bore the yellow nose of an elite squadron, and the flight lead, a Bf 110 Heavy fighter, had the fearsome visage of a demon painted on its nose. The other three aircraft were He112 light fighters, all of which had a dark black and green camouflage pattern that was standard for Belkan aircraft.

Lee frowned. The Belkan air force was prepared for war. By contrast his flight still bore the vibrant yellow, silver, and white paint job that was so distinct of the Osean air force, but was terrible for any sort of combat operation. Only his P-40 bore camouflage, which was a simple silver paint on the aircrafts belly and an olive drab green over the wings and fuselage. He ended his analysis and began to report back to control.

"Confirm. Belkan fighters, three 112's and a 110." He reported to control.

The enemy flight, seeming to have noticed them, banked away, making for their homeland.

"They're bugging out, do we pursue?" Asked Lee.

"Negative. The diplomats in Oured wouldn't like it." Came the sullen answer.

"Wardog copies, all planes, RTB." The four plane formation peeled away into the sunset, leaving the icy skies above St. Ark.

o-o

/Mammoth Shipyards, Port St. Hewlett/  
/Osean Naval Commander Patrick Anderson/  
/December 21, 1940/

The maiden voyage of any new warship was a big deal in this port city. But no such more than a new battleship. However, the early hour and cold weather had kept many away. The port was quiet; the many ships of the Pacific fleet either in dry dock or tied to the piers that jutted into the midnight waters. For all intents and purposes, the port was asleep.

Except of course, around the brand new battleship moored to pier number 13.

The OFS _Phoenix_ was a Cardinal Class fast battleship, made for speed and firepower, but not scrimping on armor either. Quadruple Steam turbine engines; four massive screws, and an armor belt that was over a foot thick. Three massive gun turrets featuring the fearsome 16'/50 caliber naval cannons squatted on her decks. Several secondary weapon batteries studded her sides. She was quite the site to behold.

Her first mission was a simple one. Sail out into the Ceres Sea, rendezvous with the OFS _Eagle_, then sail to the inland sea for joint trials.

Commander Patrick Anderson was a fresh graduate of the Osean Naval Academy. While still in his 30's, his hair had already begun to be flecked with gray. His first assignment was going to be a brand new battleship, and he was absolutely elated about that. At the time, nothing seemed to be able to kill his good mood. Not even his anxiety over the pregnant wife he'd be leaving behind.

He looked over the bay from his perch on the ships forecastle, softly humming to himself an old tune. He was at ease.

"Commander Anderson?" Came a voice from behind him.

Anderson turned to face the man who had addressed him, and upon realizing who he was he quickly snapped a salute. It was Adrian Snow, the Captain of the Phoenix.

Snow was a man of Versuan descent, evident by his dark, nearly purple, skin. He had a wide nose and a piercing glare, all of which combined to give him a critical look. He certainly fit the rugged sea captain stereotype.

He had the experience to back the stereotype up as well. In the Osean-Belkan war he had made a name for himself as a gunners mate on the heavy cruiser _Gilgamesh_. He rose through the ranks, butting heads and sinking ships as he went. Finally, as commander of Taskforce 340, he made the greatest victory in Osean naval history. His force of four escort destroyers, a heavily damaged light cruiser, a converted merchantman, and his own heavy cruiser, defeated the entire Belkan White Seas Fleet. The White Seas fleet had been composed of four brand new battle cruisers, a super dreadnaught, and several smaller escort vessels. Using his smaller force's maneuverability, he led them into a cluster of islands and small ice bergs. The area had also been shrouded in thick fog. The Belkan ships usually relied on flag and light signals to communicate. The fog prevented this; they were all essentially blind. It was a carefully constructed trap. Mines sunk several vessels. Confusion took hold, and Snow's destroyers were able to make quick and risky torpedo runs, sinking or damaging the remaining vessels. The two cruisers in his flotilla finished the survivors off with carefully aimed salvos. It was an amazing victory and had cost Belka the war.

It also left Anderson completely awed to be in the man's presence.

"Yes captain?" he answered.

"We will be casting off shortly. I need you on the bridge." Explained Snow.

"Yes sir, I'll be there shortly." Patrick replied softly.

The Captain nodded; turning and walking away. From beneath him Anderson could feel the ships steam turbines shuddering into life. This monstrous beast had been awakened, ready to rule the seas. The ropes mooring her to the pier were cut, and a small flotilla of tug boats pushed her out and into the harbor.

Anderson grinned. A new adventure had begun.

o-o

/Rally Point B, South Belka/  
/Belkan Panzer Corps Major Hans Kotz/  
/December 21, 1940/

The Belkan Panzers were the products of marvelous engineering. Fast, well-armed, and sufficiently armored. The panzer III AusF was no exception. 50mm KwK cannon, 78mm of frontal armor, powerful petrol engine, the apex of Belkan engineering. And Hans Kotz was honored to command an entire of unit of them. His unit, 43rd Panzer brigade, was assigned to army group B, the spearhead in the invasion of Osea. When the order came, they would secure Camden, then June City, and finally St. Ark, the capital of the Lakes region. This would secure dominance of the region and open up the path for future attacks into the Osean heartland.

But he had more important things to attend to. He carefully constructed a letter to his sweet heart back home, a stunning vixen who had immigrated from Sapin. His heart was not in battle, like his father had always wanted it to be. It was in the arts. The 34 year old was an artist and a writer; he had little interest in this petty war. But, his father, an influential man in the government, had secured him a place in Belka's premier military academy, and he had ended up stuck in this frozen plain, awaiting orders to invade a sovereign nation. This was so bothersome…

"Hans, the colonel would like to see you." Spoke an uneasy voice from the door of his tent.

Hans sighed. The Colonel, Adolf Krueger, was always asking for him. He was his favorite boxing partner, and if he wanted to box in this godforsaken winter weather, something had to be troubling him greatly. But right now Hans was in no mood to deal with him.

"Tell him I am unavailable Heinz." He grumbled.

"Sir, you do not understand." Heinz, who was the loader of Han's panzer, clarified. He was a burly man with thick arms, a brute from the frozen tundra of North Belka. Han had to pull him out of several fights in the past. He had a hot temper and a lot of strength, a dangerous combination. "It's in regards to the invasion."

Sighing, Hans stood. The Belkan winter was upon them, and he was not looking forward to leaving the warmth of his tent. He donned a heavy great coat and a fur cap. He was confident the thick leather would be able to keep the cold out.

"Take me to him, Heinz." _If this isn't important I'll skin them all. _Hans added in thought.

The hot tempered loader nodded and led the way. Hans followed. As he left the tent the cold hit him like a brick wall. Oh, what he would do for some tea right now…

"The rest of the crew is already waiting" Heinz explained as they walked through the camp. This was strange, usually only the battalion commanders would be allowed in the command tent. The information must have involved all of them, Hans concluded.

The camp itself was abuzz with activity. Mechanics in their black coveralls tended to the battalion's panzers. Panzer grenadiers loitered about. Their coal scuttle helmets had white covers, and their usual field gray uniforms had been replaced with white great coats. Hans would wager that the Osean troops were still equipped with their olive drab green trench coats, relics of the past war. They'd be easy targets in the pristine white snow.

The door guard at Kruger's tent allowed them in immediately. The colonel himself was leaning over a map table, smoking a cigar. Small figurines of tanks, planes, infantry and artillery were placed in various places on the table, each representing a specific unit under the Colonels command. The other three members of Hans's crew stood behind him, at attention.

"Ah, Major Kotz, I'm glad you could make it." Kruger put out the cigar and approached Kotz, a bright smile on his face. He took him in a hug.

"It seems the time of redemption is quick on its way, my friend. The Osean fools will soon learn the true meaning of hardship." Krueger was found of the propaganda of the regime, as evident by his quoting of it. Kotz had feeling that talent wasn't one of the reasons Kruger rose through the ranks so fast. In fact, the man had very few accomplishments to his name.

Yes, he was a veteran of the previous war. But he had been wounded in the early stages, and rather than fighting in the trenches like the rest of his men, he remained in a hospital in Sudentor. Hans presumed he only possessed this rank because of a lot of sweet talking and some friends in high places. Despite this; superiors were superiors, no matter how incompetent they may be.

Hans cleared his throat. "You wanted to see me sir?" He asked flatly. He was in no mood for small talk or theatrics.

Krueger seemed disappointed with Hans's attitude. He rolled his eyes and walked toward a desk at the far end of the tent, next to the Colonels cot. He groaned as he leaned over to open it. Frozen tundra was no place for fifty-five year old men. "Yes… I have some new intel I believe you should be made aware of."

Kruger returned to the table and gestured for Hans to follow. Hans did so, and watched as Kruger rearranged some of the figures on the western side of the border, representing the Oseans. He added several more to the eastern side.

"As of 0600 hours, Sapin, Belka, and Recta will declare war on the Osean Federation. This has not changed." Hans nodded. The Eastern Pact; Recta, Belka, and Sapin had been allies since the Osean War. The three nations would invade in tandem; in order to shift the balance of power in their favor.

"However, the Sapos have moved an armored brigade into the vicinity, a last minute change decided by high command back in Dinsmark. This means we'll have a bit more firepower as we cross the border. I'm interested in seeing what those Erusian made panzer's can do." This was certainly interesting to Hans. The original plan had the Sapos driving south to cut off any escape by the Osean Army. What had changed?

"But here's the worst part." He said with an exasperated sigh. He moved one of the infantry icons away from the border and replaced it in the Capitol of the region, St. Ark. "Osean high command, according to our spies, has recalled the 10th mountain division to St. Ark, and replaced it with this"- he moved a tank icon toward the border-"The 1st Armored Brigade, freshly reequipped with a bloody tank we haven't seen before."

Hans held back a curse. New tank? That could be an issue.

"Are you familiar with the Osean tanks?" Krueger asked.

Hans nodded. "The M3 Lee is their primary medium tank. 75mm gun, dangerous at close range. Horrid armor and high profile. Threat level medium. The M3 Stuart, which is a light tank. It is primarily used for scouting and infantry support. Fast and small, decent 37mm cannon. Threat level low, but it can still raise hell against our Panzer IIs." He recited the information with practiced ease; he was required to memorize this as part of becoming a panzer commander.

"Very good." Kruger slapped a packet of files and pictures on the table, causing all the figurines to shake. "This is all the information we have on this M4 tank of theirs. There isn't much in there, but it may help. I just hope the Osean's didn't get smart and decide to put some armor on this thing. A 50mm shell won't get past more than two inches of armor. Let alone a 37."

Hans nodded in agreement. "Thank you for informing me sir. I will make sure to inform the platoon commanders come morning."

Kruger didn't say anything against him alerting the other commanders, a signal that he was okay with whatever Hans decided to do. A good sign, after all. Sighing, Kruger left the tent with his crew and returned to his tent. Soon, such luxuries as tents and cots would be forgotten. He'd fought in the Sapo Civil War. He knew combat. And he knew that the following morning would be one of bloodshed.

o-o

/ Heierlark Air Base, South Belka/  
/Belkan Luftwaffe Pilot Theo Buchner/  
/December 21, 1940/

Theo Buchner was blood thirsty. A member of a noble family, he had been disgraced by the actions of his father in the previous war. His family had once been one of the most prestigious in all of Belka, all before the unfortunate actions of his father. Martial blood coursed through his veins, every male of his family had been a member of the Belkan armed forces, or a member of the armed forces of the Kingdoms that preceded Belka. But he never was able to enjoy this rich history… oh no, he was a social pariah, an outcast.

His father had been a cavalry man in the previous war. Then, he made a cowardly move. Ordered to charge an Osean emplacement, he instead ran from the field, only to be shot in the back. His family fell from grace, and he and his family had been scorned since.

Theo Buchner had one goal in life—return his families honor, once and for all.

He had nearly done it too. He was a pilot in the esteemed Belkan Luftwaffe, one of the best. He had fought in the Sapo Civil War, much like many of his countrymen. He had gotten his ace wings there, flying the He112 V model. Now, here he was, at Heierlark, watching as squadron after of squadron of fighters, bombers, and Fallschirmjäger's arrived at the installation, the largest of its kind in all of Belka.

Theo lit a cigarette and watched from the barracks window as ground grew herded lumbering He111's, slim Do217's, and Shark like Bf 109's around the tarmac. One of the 109's was his, no doubt. He couldn't see it in the darkness, but his would bear the striking crimson paint of the Rot squadron. He had earned his place in the elite squadron, and soon, he would earn his country's respect once more.

"Hey Theo, got time to talk?" A voice from behind.

Theo turned around and eyed the tail man who stood there. He was Rot leader, Reiner Stoss. Reiner was one of the few men that Theo respected, and when Reiner had something to say, the typically headstrong Theo listened.

"Sure I do, Captain." Theo nodded, before taking a deep drag from his cigarette.

The tall blonde sat down next to the much shorter salt and pepper haired one. Theo was prematurely grey… but his other features still suggested vitality and youth.

"Lieutenant, I want you to be aware, unlike the Sapo Republicans, the Oseans are not push overs. Their planes are more modern, not the Yuke biplanes from before. This will be a hard fight, one we can best win with caution and coordinated attack."

Ah. A lecture. It made sense to Theo now.

"I am fully aware, Captain." Theo interrupted. "I have fought them before, back in Seville. Carrier fighters, Buffalo, they called them. A fitting name, they were so lumbering and slow, it was almost unfair, hacking them from the sky." Buchner's eye's held a feral light. "It was all great fun, watching those burning wrecks fall into the sea."

The Captain was not taken back. He had grown used to Theo's murderous attitude. However, he was still quite serious.

"A bad attitude, Theo. Time has passed, the Oseans have learned. Do not underestimate them." Reiner left it there, standing up and walking away, leaving the conversation behind right there.

Theo took another drag of his cigarette. In a handful of hours, he would see if the Capitan was right.

o-o

/Rally Point A, South Belka/  
/Belkan Corporal Erwin Grimm/  
/December 21, 1940/

Cold. Always so cold. Erwin Grimm hated cold. He had simply experienced too much of it… in the cold, rifles jammed. Engines refused to start. Flesh froze to steel. And here he was, left shivering on the Osean border, nothing but a snow white great coat, a campfire, and a few swigs of some cheap brandy the section leader had shared to keep him warm. It wasn't enough, but it was better than nothing.

Still, the bitter wind, coming cold from the east, held bite. Enough to make him wish he had never joined the Army in the first place. But he had done it in order to follow his older brother, Claude. And Oh, how dumb an idea that had been…

Erwin Grimm hated his brother with every fiber of his being. But it had not always been like that. Before hand, he had really loved his brother. He could remember the good all days, back before his brother left for Sapin. Before they received the notice that he had gone missing in action. Before they found out he was a traitor.

Erwin took another vicious swig of the firewater in his canteen. The liquid burned going down, and made him cough. He still wasn't used to it, unlike the more senior soldiers in his section. The older sergeants often made fun of him, and called him a poor excuse of a non-commissioned officer.

Seven men sat around the fire, drinking and laughing, trying their best to ignore the fact that they'd be thrown into the meat grinder the next day, thrown into a war they wanted, no matter how dangerous it could be. Everyone wanted revenge on Osea. Everyone. But Erwin had more personal reasons. He knew that his brother was somewhere across that border, and he would find him, no matter what.

Done with his brooding, Erwin stood up and picked up his Mauser. He approached another soldier, who held a MP40, his sections point man. He was a good friend named Ludwig Kaiser. He was a lowly private, and was even younger than Erwin. Neither had fought in the Sapo Civil War. Both would end up learning about true combat, the hard way.

"Ludwig, got any smokes on you?" Erwin asked. He wasn't a smoker until he joined the Army. Even so he didn't smoke very much, but now, he needed one quite badly.

The fish faced private pulled a box from his tunic and handed it to Erwin. "Here, take the whole thing. I'm trying to quit." He responded flatly.

Erwin frowned. Ludwig usually smoked like a factory chimney. Something was up with him. "What's wrong?" Erwin asked softly, sitting down and removing his coal scuttle helmet.

Ludwig looked into the night's sky and sighed, vapor wafting from his lips. "I just want to be ready. You and I both know smoking hurts your ability to run. I don't want to be slowed down."

Erwin knew that wasn't the real reason. Ludwig was scared, but he didn't want to admit it. Erwin wrapped his arms around the other teen, and then smiled. "Yeah, whatever you need to tell yourself. But no matter what, when we're in St. Ark, we're going to share a victory smoke."

Ludwig laughed. "Fine, we have a deal." He looked back toward the sky, and Erwin followed his gaze. The stars twinkled above, ignoring the affairs of men.

o-o

/Oured, Osea/  
/Osean President Abraham Horn/  
/December 22, 1940/

Abraham Horn sighed as he moved through stack after stack of paper work concerning recent incidents on the Belkan border. It would seem that his already troubled presidency would be hitting even more snags, very soon, generally in concern to Belkan aggression. After his predecessor had failed to prevent the fascist takeover of Sapin, and end the economic slump, anything Abraham did seemed better. However, with war looming on the horizon, it would appear that things would not get any better.

Eventually, Horn grew tired of dealing with the paper work and placed them away, instead taking in hand one of his favorite stories, _The Demon Razgriz_. He smiled happily and sighed contently, placing his feet up on the desk and taking a moment to relax.

His moment of relaxation was quickly interrupted by the arrival of one of his aids; Peter Green. He carried a thickly bound diplomatic note, stamped with the Belkan Raven. Abraham groaned.

"Let me take a guess, more demands to give them mining rights in the Lake Regions? Or to let them use the Eaglin Canal?" He griped.

Peter shrugged. "I don't have very much of an idea sir, but, it is addressed for you…"

Peter never got the opportunity to finish his sentence. The glass windows of the office shook as a loud _crump_ rolled in from the harbor. He paled and Horn swung around in his chair, hoping that it was merely thunder.

He was wrong, as evident by the pillar of oily smoke rising from the harbor; were the Osean Atlantic Fleet was stationed. Small black dots filled the sky in formation, and a low droning was becoming more and more audible.

Abraham was in shock… he couldn't compute what he was seeing. Another loud _crump _shook the building. He watched in silent horror as small explosions stitched across the land and sea, burning warehouses and port machinery.

Peter finally broke free of his own stupor and made for the radio on the desk. He flipped it on, and found that the Osean Emergency Broadcast system was online.

_ This is the Osean Emergency Broadcast system with an alert for the city of Oured and the surrounding area. All citizens must remain indoors or in a place of shelter. Please, do not leave your homes—_

Peter changed the station to the Navy frequency, and already conflicting but all together shocking reports were crackling through.

_Crump. _A bomb.

"_What the fuck? The _Albatross_ just went up in flame!"_

_Crump. _Another bomb.

"_The _Excalibur_ just took a direct hit, she's listing hard to port! Can anyone get a status report from her?" _

_Crump. Crump. Crump. _A sickening symphony of bombs.

The white house gave a fantastic view of the harbor, and Horn could only watch as each vessel was struck. The proud old battleship _Albatross _was burning furiously, her forward mast having collapsed over her gun turrets. Another rattling explosion rung, as her forward magazines exploded.

Screams. One the radio there were screams. _"The _Albatross_ is sinking! What the hell is going on?" _

The heavy cruiser _Excalibur_ was moored next to the elderly battleship. Flames had spread to her deck, and she listed heavily to port. Her forward gun turrets were skewed off center, and her aft turret was smashed and blackened. In a matter of minutes, she slipped beneath the oil soaked water, only her superstructure remained above the water line.

Along battleship row were even more capital warships, along with more in dry-docks and berths along the shore. So far, none of the shocked sailors had been able to return fire.

Horn watched as a twin engine fighter-bomber, a Belkan 110, made a shallow dive and dropped its ordinance on another, more modern battleship, the _Buzzard. _Thunder rolled as the bomb struck amidships, breaking her back and setting her to settle on the muddy harbor bottom.

"_I see Belkan markings! Are we under attack?" _More terrified radio calls. It was followed by a chorus of conflicting orders and reports, some as outrageous to suggest that the Communist Yukes we're behind the assault.

"My god…" Horn whispered. In the harbor, another heavy cruiser was burning. She suddenly erupted in flame, snapping in two. The third dead ship of the day. A Belkan Stuka pulled away victoriously from above.

The naval air station was not receiving better treatment. Belkan 109's and He 112's strafed the parked fighters with their cannons, setting the fighters and bombers on the tarmac ablaze. Soon, the morning sky was choked with smoke and soot. Another explosion shook the air, this time as a torpedo from a low flying He111 struck the _Ranger_, a light cruiser. The small escort leaned on her side before succumbing to her wounds.

Horn was watching as the entire Atlantic fleet, the pride of Osea, the most powerful navy in this hemisphere, was being torn to pieces.

"_Cut the mooring lines, get us out of here! We're sitting ducks!" _The officers of those ships could be heard trying to regain order, trying their best to save men and machines. Off in the harbor, one destroyer did manage to get moving, steaming through the channel toward the open waters of the Gulf of Oured. Her 20mm cannons blazed, sending hot lead right back at the offending attack planes. She was rewarded when a Ju 87 fell to the sea in flames.

Cheering could be heard now, a small victory. But it wouldn't matter, one plane for entire ships did not compute. The destroyer was soon out of sight, but her own flak soon joined the smoke in the sky. At least the Oseans were fighting back.

A pair of Do217's swooped down, drawing away when they had deployed their fish. The torpedoes found their mark, a lumbering Battleship from the last war, the _Raven. _She slowly began to roll over, before finally she rested in a completely capsized position. Men were even standing on her wet belly now.

"We just can't sit here and do nothing!" Peter growled, taking his coat and grabbing a handgun from a locked cabinet. "I need to get over to the war department and figure out what's happening. I'll send for the secret service to take you to safety sir."

Horn shook his head. "Stay here. The War Office is on the other side of the harbor… you wouldn't make it." Horn's hand came up, shaking, pointing at the one and only bridge that spanned the harbor. Its center span was gone, burning, the product of a bomb. "There is nothing we can do now but watch."

_Crump. _More bombs. Always more bombs. A pair of Belkan fighters screeched overhead, their shining paint glimmering in the sun.

Peter growled and placed the pistol on the desk. He then tore open the letter, and handed it to Horn. Abraham looked at it, and read it aloud. "As of resolution A113, the Eastern Pact is hereby at war with the Osean Federation…"

He cursed and threw it in the corner. "Then so be it."

_Crump Crump. _


	2. Black Eagle

/Neil Airbase, Central Osea/  
/Captain Lee Nagase/  
/December 22, 1940/

Lee watched the skies with a sharp eye, catching the twinkling light of every star as they made their way across the sky. It was a beauty that always fascinated him, the tranquility of space. The only thing he loved more were the white birds of his home town, the albatrosses that passed through on their yearly migrations. One of his favorite past times had been to sit on his porch and draw them as they passed.

When he was younger, he was a solitary child. He'd rather read, write or draw then wrestle and fight. In those days, he had always longed to fly like the beautiful white birds.

But now he was all grown up, and he wasn't basking in the warm trade winds of his old town. Instead, he shivered through the bitter wind of winter, far from home, on a dirt airfield south of the Black River. The only benefit of the wind was that it blew away the industrial smog that usually enveloped the valley around the river, which was framed with factories and mills. However, his sensitive nose still found the musk of smoke and soot. Nothing could blow away something that had been saturating the air for so long.

His pencil carefully scratched along paper, even as he stared up into the sky. Faint lines became birds, and small dots, stars. As he drew, his thoughts became projected onto the page. Soon, the enchanting scene he was gazing upon appeared over the once blank page of the sketch pad. The midnight sky meeting the low hills, and the silvery, moon-lit waters of the river snaking below. The view from the airfield control tower was breathtaking.

"What are you doing up here? It's freezing, you'll catch a cold."

Kris had came up from behind. Lee didn't hear him climb the ladders into the tower, and he briefly thought about what could have happened if he was on watch. He shook his head and cleared his thoughts.

"Just enjoying the tranquility, you know?" he responded softly. It was true, he had come here for the silence. All the other pilots and ground crew in the barracks, drinking and gambling, it wasn't a productive place for any kind of artistic traits. He didn't hate the other pilots per say, but he didn't like spending too long in their company. The only three people he could actually stand for any amount of time were the members of his wing. Anyone else, he merely tolerated.

Kris smiled and took a seat next to Lee. "I don't blame you. I've got a headache already. Davenport's betting all his pay again, as usual."

Lee chuckled. "What an idiot. He knows he never wins. You should probably go back and drag him out of that damn game before he ends up gambling away his soul."

Kris laughed in response, before letting it die down to a small chuckle, and then sighing. He turned to Lee and looked him in the eye. Lee wanted to look away, to cower, but Kris' gaze wouldn't allow it.

"Lee, I know something is up. What's wrong." He finally said softly, but sternly, demanding a response in his own persuasive way. Lee knew his attempt to change the subject had been in vain. Kris could always read people as if they were open books, he had the ability to sense when something wasn't right in a person. Lee knew that lying would be useless, he had to tell the truth.

"I'm a coward, alright. I'm not cut out to be a soldier." He admitted, before dropping his head into his hands. He continued to mumble. "I can't do this. When my father took me hunting, I couldn't even find it in me to shoot a rabbit. A goddamn rabbit! How the hell can I kill a person?"

Kris didn't say anything, instead letting Lee continue on.

"He was so disappointed in me… When he first taught me to shoot, I was incredible at it. I could hit any target, any size. He said I had an eagle's eyes." Lee looked to the dark, clear sky, taking in once more the stars that shone so brilliantly overhead.

"The instructor at flight school told me the same thing. He said I had hands of gold, that I was the best pilot he'd ever seen. For my whole life everyone has commended me on my potential, but I always let them down, without fail. It's in my nature. I'm nothing but a fool. A fool and a failure."

Only now did Kris speak.

"Lee. I need you to listen to every word I'm about to say. Some of them will be harsh, but I'd rather you hear it from me, opposed to learning it the hard way." Kris gestured to the east. "Across that border is the Belkan Luftwaffe. They're tough, experienced, and they're skilled. Now, tell me, what makes you different than them?"

Lee was about to start listing ways, until he realized the question was rhetorical.

"There are only two differences between you and them. You're skilled and you're tough, you can't deny it. You took those road marches back in training as if they were a Sunday stroll through the park! The only things that make you different then them is your level of experience, and your motivation, or rather, lack there of."

Lee wanted to argue about how they were killers, how most of them had all fought before. But once more, Kris left him no room to speak.

"You need motivation Lee. You are capable of being a great soldier. I know it, you know it, the squadron knows it. You wouldn't be wing leader if you didn't have talent." Kris' finger poked Lee in the chest as he made each point.

"They have motives Lee. Reasons to fight. Whether it's for glory, or for pay, or for survival, they all fight for something. They are people just like you, people with morals and fears. But no matter what, in the end, either they die or you die. It's your choice who sees the pearly gates." Kris' speech was over now, and he merely watched Lee, waiting for a reaction.

Lee remained silent and pensive. He knew full well that Kris was right on every account. There was no question that war was about to break out, and regardless of what Lee believed, he'd have to fight. He'd have to find a way to stomach it.

Thunder rolled in the distance, and Lee turned toward it. Back at his home, thunderstorms rolled in every day. He loved to watch them, just as much as he loved watching the stars and the birds. Lighting was a beautiful phenomenon, a marvel of nature. Beautiful and destructive, the way the light danced across the sky always captivated Lee's imagination.

But this was no thunderstorm.

The first roll of thunder was quickly followed by another, and another. The flashes that Lee saw over the horizon was not lighting, it was artillery. Big guns thumping away. Lee's breath caught in his throat.

"No… no… it can't..." he muttered, horrified.

The sirens began to blair not more than a moment later.

Kris didn't waste any time. He grabbed Lee by the collar and pulled him up from his chair. "No time to have a fucking panic attack Lee! Get up, this is the real deal!"

Search lights joined the flashes of the guns. The shafts of light waved across the sky, illuminating the sparse clouds. Soon, the twin trails of tracers from anti-aircraft guns joined them. The once clear night was now alight with shell bursts, and the quiet was shattered by the rolling explosions of bombs. Kris was already down the ladder, having left the frozen Lee behind.

Kris turned back around and screamed back up at the younger man. "Do you want to die down here, or do you want to die in the clouds! It's your choice!" Kris turned away and was now sprinting across the grass field toward the revetments were the squadron's fighters were parked. The sound of aircraft was now audible over the rattle of cannon fire. McNash Air Force Base, which was situated on the other side of the river, was alight with flame. The search lights and anti-air batteries that framed her perimeter were still searching the sky for the planes that had all but razed the base.

That was enough to get Lee moving. He slid down the ladder of the tower, and began to sprint across the field, following Kris, who was now standing by a shed, retrieving the flightgear stored there. Lee was able to catch up to him now, panting after running nearly half a mile across the base. Kris was already wearing his fighter jacket and and his flight helmet, with the oxygen mask hanging off of it. He wasn't wearing a parachute.

"Hurry up. The rest of the squadron will be getting ready as well, we need to get in the air before the enemy does to us what they did to them..." He pointed to McNash, before shaking his head. Lee didn't need any more encouragement.

He followed Kris toward the four planes that belonged to Wardog, all of them bearing a stylized beagle on their tails. Three P-36's and a P-40. Neither Kris nor Lee were even sure they had fuel or ammunition, but they didn't have time to worry about that. They had to get into the air. If not, they'd simply be sitting ducks for bombers. At least in the air they had a better chance of running away.

Kris scrambled to his own fighter, pulling himself unto the wing. He opened up the ammo box and looked inside before grinning. "They're still armed from our sortie this morning! We can fight!" He unlocked the canopy on his craft and slid into the cockpit, leaving it open as he began start up procedures. Soon, the radial engine in the P-36 began to stutter and pop, before roaring into full life. The tri-bladed prop spun into invisibility. At this point, ground crew and other pilots had finally left the barracks, and were scrambling around the base, trying to get fighters fueled and ready to intercept.

Kris was mouthing from his cockpit to Lee. It could be presumed that he was speaking, but the growling engine of the fighter kept any voice from being heard. The message remained clear, however. Get into the air before it was too late.

Lee needed no further prompting. He sprinted to his P-40 and lept onto the wing, nearly slipping off the ice slick, aluminum skin before grabbing ahold of the glass and steel canopy that encased the cockpit. The latch was already open, and it slid back on it's rails with a little effort, allowing Lee to vault into the cockpit. He strapped himself to the leather seat, before flipping the switches on the control panel responsible for the batteries. The few electrical components in the cockpit hummed to life, including the starter button. His thumb jammed it, and the electric starter coughed as it attempted to jump start the engine. The well kept engine caught on the first try, sputtering and then thundering to life, vibration coursing through the fighters steel frame.

Engine noise from starting fighters was echoing from every corner of the base now, but most of the other pilots were not ready for battle. Only Kris and Lee could fight for now, and they were running out of time.

"_All pilots, this is Base Commander Mason. As of 00:00, we are now at war with the Belkan Federation. Radar has a large formation of aircraft coming in from the north east, and they ain't friendly. ETA is eleven minutes. Get in the air and save this base! Godspeed." _The base speaker system mirrored what Lee's radio had just transmitted. It was war, and it was coming directly at them.

"Don't waste your time Lee, we have to get into the air." Kris had found the same channel as Lee, and the two could speak. It was a standard frequency though, everyone could hear them. The truth was the same in reverse, they could hear everyone else using the same frequency.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Lee finally stuttered out. He pushed the throttle and left the earthen revetment, his fighter rattling as it crossed the grass field toward the unpaved stretch of frozen dirt that was the bases landing strip. Kris was already waiting on it, his fighter idling.

"Should we wait for the others?" Lee asked, looking out of his cockpit toward the other planes as they started up and began to move.

"Negative. We need to get in the air and cover their take off. We simply can't be caught on the ground." Lee nodded, and watched as Kris did the same from his own cockpit. The both of them pushed the throttle and started to roll down the strip, their fighters quaking and shaking as they hit rocks and cracks. Soon enough, they both were in the air, gaining speed and altitude.

"We have to use as much time as possible to climb. We both know Belkan fighters have a better climb rate, we don't want them to bounce us from above." Lee was finally starting to shake off his shock and move back into a position where he could give orders. Kris acknowledged his order and pulled higher into the clouds. Lee followed, pushing the watercooled engine of his warhawk to it's limit. All the tactics and information he had learned at fighter school was rushing through his mind.

"Alright Kris, stay low. I'll pull high and watch from above. My fighter has better high altitude performance than yours." In this case, better didn't necessarily mean good. The P-40 only had a single stage supercharger and lost performance above 10,000 feet. The P-36's air cooled engine would fare no better. However, the air cooled engine on the P-36 was more rugged and could survive more punishment, meaning Kris would do better on the offensive.

"Try and take the bombers from below. I'll watch for escorts." Lee ordered, before glancing to his fuel gage. Nearly empty. The fighter may have been armed, but he only had about a few hours worth of fuel.

"Sure you can handle that Lee?" Kris asked, concern heavy in his voice. He was vulnerable to being jumped by Belkan escorts at his altitude.

"Yeah… yeah, I'm sure." Lee stuttered. He was lying and he knew it, and he was sure that Kris knew it too. But neither of them had time to worry about it. The bombers were approaching.

"This is Captain Nagase to Neil AFB. What's the status on the other squadrons?" Lee needed to know, desperately. He and Kris couldn't take out every bomber, and if the other fighters failed to get in the air they would all be done for.

"_Both Halo and Rapier squadrons aren't ready. The rest of Wardog and all of Wolf squadron are all ready to roll, ETA is three minutes. Just try to keep them occupied." _That was both good and bad news. They would have a fighting chance with two wings airborne, but they would not have the support of Halo and Rapier, the strongest squadrons they had.

"Lee! I have visual contact with the enemy! Junkers, I think they're dive bombers. Permission to engage?" Kris reported. Lee looked down toward Kris' position. Four gull winged, fix landing gear warplanes were coming in at his 12, and below him. Lee could only assume they carried bombs.

"Take them out Kris! We can't let them hit the base! Permission granted!"

Kris needed no further prompting. He dove down on the dive bombers, his machine guns ripping. The lead stuka erupted in flame as it's wing was struck, before it began a death spin into the river. Kris' high speed pass caught the others by surprise and they scattered, dropping toward the deck. Golden tracers illuminated the night sky as rear gunners tried to blow the offending Osean from the sky.

"Got one, got one! Enemy plane shot down!" Kris cheered, circling to confirm the kill. Lee cheered with him. "That'll keep them away!"

Lee was about to congratulate Kris on his kill when he caught a crimson flash along the mountain side. He followed it with his eyes, trying to identify it. It was a fighter alright, painted in brilliant blood red. It was sleek and shark like, and simply looked eons ahead of the P-36 and P-40. It was joined by four more of the same model, all of them bearing the same color.

"_This is Rot leader to all enemy combatants. Flee or fall from the skies in flame. All Rot aircraft, split off and engage any and all enemy fighters. Leave none alive." _

The five plane formation split apart with precision, each pilot moving off on his own. Lee was up high enough that he had not been noticed, but for Kris, it was another story. One of the 109'sapproached him from his seven, directly below and in front of Lee.

"Kris! You got a bandit on your tail!" Lee warned frantically, watching in near helplessness as the predatory warbird stalked Kris.

"What, where?! I can't see him, I can't see him!" The usually composed man was near panic now. He threw the fighter into a roll, trying to escape into ground clutter. The 109 trailed him, bearing ever closer.

"He's still on you Kris! You have to try and shake him!" Lee's hands began to sweat, and he felt his stomach knotting up. His shoulders shook like a rickety post in the wind, and his vision was darkening around the edges. He was falling apart! He had to get it together.

"I can't get him off me! Kill him!" Kris was begging now, his voice sounded strained. His P-36 was weaving only a hundred feet above the snowy tree tops, and no matter what that fighter remained on him.

"I'm engaging, I'm engaging!" Lee promised. He threw the stick and rolled inverted, before pulling into a split S maneuver, gaining speed at the cost of altitude. He leveled out at about 300 hundred feet, with enough speed from his dive to catch up to the two other warplanes.

Things were getting worse. The 109 had approached to gun range, and he was firing. Heavy cannon rounds and lighter machine gun rounds stitched across the sky, arching over Kris' fighter in an attempt to lead it. If Lee didn't do something soon, Kris would be hit.

He hit the throttle even harder. Lee watched as the speck that was the 109 grew larger and larger in his gunsight. He was approaching fast. Soon, the crimson fighter was within gun range, and was nearly perfectly in his crosshairs.

Kris threw his fighter towards the left once more, trying to throw the Belkan off of him. It was futile, the enemy was not going anywhere. The cannon rounds continued to edge closer and closer to his fighter.

"Get this fucker off me Lee! He's got me locked up!" Kris had little semblance of composure. He was terrified and helpless. He couldn't outrun his enemy and he couldn't out maneuver him. It was all up to Lee. Lee had his shot, all he would have to do is pull the trigger for a mere three seconds…

"Take the goddamn shot Lee! I won't last much-" Kris would never get to his complete his sentence. A high explosive round caught his engine, lighting it into flames. The radio did catch his screams though. Tortured and feral, piercing into the ears of every single person who happened to be listening. His stricken craft fell to the earth in a steep arc, before erupting into an even larger fireball when it hit the deck. The screams fell into an oppressive silence. The Belkan pilot circled to confirm the kill.

"..." Lee was stuck in a stunned silence, his mouth hung open. Everything seemed to slow for him, and suddenly grow more and more surreal. The night sky seemed clearer. The sensation of motion as he shot through the sky became stronger. He felt the bottom of his gut dropout, and he became thoroughly sick. It was like breaking free of a nightmare, only to realize that the nightmare had been real from beginning to end. Except it still wasn't over.

Kris was dead. There was no question. This was no longer simply a bad dream. Now, Lee recognized that everything he feared had came to pass in a matter of minutes. War, death, loss... everything In that moment, something broke inside of him. His vision grew blurred around the edges. He wiped at his face, expecting tears. He found none. His vision then became perfectly clear, and his heart ceased to skip beats.

"I'm going to kill you, bastard."

He threw his fighter to the left, growling as the g-forces shoved him into his seat. The crimson 109 was circling around, having noticed him. The shark like fighter was quick and agile, and the enemy pilot was clearly no amatuer. Lee leveled his wings and went for a head on pass, his trigger finger jerking the trigger back. His fighter's machine guns chattered, and red tracers illuminated the sky between him and his prey.

The 109 pilot barrel rolled, avoiding the thumb sized rounds with flippant ease. The two warplanes were still closing on one another. Lee ceased his fire, realizing that he was simply wasting ammunition. The gap between his target and his own aircraft was closing rapidly as they approached the merge. It was a game of chicken now… the distance closed, the 109 was growing larger and larger in Lee's sight.

The Belkan pilot blinked first, rolling inverted and passing Lee from above. As the two adversaries passed, Lee gazed into the Belkans cockpit. Obsidian eyes met icy blue ones. The scene only lasted a moment, but to Lee, it felt like an agonizing eternity. He was so close, yet still out of reach.

The merge ended, and the two pilots continued on divergent paths. Lee looked back and caught the sight of a black eagle on the 109's nose. Lee's hand tightened on his stick… he would hunt for that black eagle, and he would kill him, even if it meant joining Kris.

"I'm coming for you. One day, I'll send you back to hell in an inferno." Lee broke away from the engagement, climbing back into the clouds. He shook his head and struggled to regain his composure. There was still a war going on, battle raging all around him, and he was in the thick of it.

Lee pulled his fighter away from the deck, and away from the smoldering crater Kris had become. The cloud cover hung low, and he took refuge inside of it. Other Belkan fighters would still be active in order to escort the large flight of bombers en route to level Neil. Lee knew that no matter what had just happened, he couldn't simply drop everything. The base was still in danger, and he still had to cover the other pilots as they took off. Even when so much had changed, so much else remained the same.

Lee spoke into his radio. "This is Captain Nagase, what is the status on Wolf and Wardog squadrons?" After he asked, he began to scan the sky again. Flak was still bursting wildly, and he began to grow concerned. Those anti-air gunners could just as easily kill him as they could kill the enemy. He was about to radio his concerns back to Base Command when he got his response.

"Wolf and Wardog are both in the air and are nearly at your position. The bombers are still approaching." Lee took a deep breath. The time had come to face the Belkans head on. He pulled free of the cloud cover and began searching for the other fighters. He found them on his six, approaching in a large formation. P-36's, P-26's, and the occasional P-40 made up the fighter wing.

"Hey Cap! Hope you and Kris didn't have too much fun without us!" Dean laughed over the radio… he was completely oblivious to what had happened to Kris.

"Speaking of which, where is he anyways?" Dean continued. From his cockpit, Dean was scanning ahead but could only find the one P-40 of his Captain.

Lee wasn't about to skirt around the issue. "Kris is dead. A Belkan fighter got him." Lee's tone was flat and cold. He didn't feel like talking about it, especially not now.

"Wha.. what?" Dean typically had a lot to say… but not now. Now, he was trapped in a loop of disbelief and horror.

"No. He can't be dead.." Dean hadn't known Kris as well as Lee had, but as members of the same wing, and as bunk mates, the two were still close. "He's somewhere, I know it.. this has to be some sort of cruel joke.."

"This is no joke Lieutenant." Inferno spoke up. "Lee wouldn't joke about something like that, not at a time like this. This is war, if you don't wise up, they'll eat you alive." Inferno's words were enough to push him free of his denial.

"Yeah…" Dean muttered quietly to himself. "You're right."

Lee was practically ignoring his two wingmates at this point. He had to remain alert. The Luftwaffe pilots were living up to their reputation. They were professional and deadly, and even a moment of inattentiveness could be fatal. He also had to be ready to effectively lead the two squadrons he had suddenly been entrusted with. Thinking tactically, he began to formulate a plan of attack.

He knew that his P-40's had the best chance in a dogfight with the enemy. The P-36's could hold their own against older Belkan He 112's, but were outclassed by the newer 109's. If he gathered his P-40's he could use them to engage the Belkan escorts. The P-36's were more or less suited to combat the Belkan Heinkel and Dornier bombers.

His P-26's, however, would be useless. They were obsolete in every sense of the word, little more than trainers. He'd send them to low altitude, to pick off any wounded Belkans as they attempted to flee.

"Alright. Captain Richards, Captain Donahue, and Captain Ivanov, form on me. We'll engage any escorts we come across. Lieutenant Davenport, Lieutenant Cross, and Lieutenant Abrams, form the remaining P-36's into bomber strike groups. Go low into the clouds and tear at them. All remaining aircraft, hit the deck and stay out of the fight."

A chorus of affirmatives cackled over the radio, and the formation dissolved into chaos as the wing's broke away, before reforming in Lee's new formation. The three P-40's of the other Captains dropped around Lee, and the P-36's formed three aircraft units, small V formations. The P-26 pilots dived away, into the ground cover, much to Lee's relief. He didn't want to have to worry about them.

Without radar, Lee had no idea where his flight was in relation to the enemy. The thick cloud cover also limited visibility. He was flying into battle blind.

"Where the hell are the-" Lee never got to finish his sentence.

Breaking through the clouds came the mighty Belkan bomber command, in all of its glory. Ju 88's, He-111's, and Do-17 bombers in tight formation, coming fast from Lee's 12.

"Fuck! Break left, break left!" Lee and his wingman rolled away, avoiding a mid-air collision. The bomber crews seemed as surprised as Lee did, several bombers breaking formation and gunners shooting wildly towards him.

"Attack flight, engage at will!" Lee growled, pulling in a climbing turn to return to the position above the enemy.

The P-36 formation broke through the low hanging clouds, guns chattering. Terrified radio calls from Belkan crews criss crossed the air waves.

"Oseans! Where did they come from?" One Belkan called, panicked.

"Where's our fighter cover!" Another demanded, his voice shaky.

The Belkan formation was alight with gunfire, as the nimble fighters dove in and around the tightly packed bombers, pouring tracers into wings and engines.

The Belkan escorts had woken up though. A pair of Bf-110's peeled away from their squad leader, diving on a pair of P-36s. The unsuspecting rookies were swatted from the sky before they could so much as scream.

Lee snarled silently to himself. "We gotta get in there!" He pushed his Warhawk around, screaming into the bomber formation. He weaved around the fat Heinkels and slim Dorniers, dodging golden streams of tracer fire.

A pair of He-112-V models were embedded in the formation, covering what was most likely the bomber lead. Lee pulled his fighter's nose around toward the closest 112, lining up a shot. He pulled the trigger with zero hesitation, shredding the light fighters fuselage, leaving the stricken bird to fall from the sky.

"Good kill." Reported another Osean. Lee didn't pay attention. He wasn't the type to gloat, especially over something like that.

The Osean pilots took advantage of the lack of cover over the Belkans flight lead. A P-36 with a stylized wolf on its tail dove on the Ju-88, igniting its bomb load. It detonated, motor oil, body parts, and shattered aluminum pelting nearby aircraft.

"Yeehaaa!" The victorious Osean pulled away from the fire ball, wagging his wings in celebration.

The Belkan flight was descending into chaos, but the stubborn and well trained pilots and crews refused to break. The surviving bombers remained in stiff formation, and the escorts grew more determined. A 109 made a quick pass on a P-36, cannon rounds tearing the Osean's wing off. The pilot bailed out, opening his parachute. At least he was still over friendly territory.

Another bomber fell from the sky, tumbling in flames, the work of another interceptor. Lee felt small amounts of pride swell within him. His plan was working... but he didn't dare grow complacent. So much could still go wrong.

Lee returned to scanning, looking for another target. He found it in the form of a Bf-109, with a demon's fearsome visage on its nose. An ace pilot... a dangerous pilot.

"I'm engaging." Lee reported to his wingman, before pulling inverted and diving on his target. The g-forces tore against him, threatening to knock him unconscious. He refused, fighting away the black around the edges of his vision.

The enemy pilot had seen him though. He snapped around, pulling into an attack position. Lee predicted the move, and barrel rolled, avoiding the 109's counter fire. He needed to gain speed now, and drew the fight down lower. His P-40 was more maneuverable at high speed, and the lower altitude would level the playing field with the higher powered engine on the 109.

To Lee's amazement, the Belkan pilot followed him, rolling down and diving with him. Lee's fighter was gaining more speed, having more weight. Once he hit 1,000 feet, Lee drew back on the stick, breaking his dive. The more nimble 109 broke its quicker, but the damage was done. Lee banked left and used his greater inertia to climb above and around his adversary, who had clearly lost sight of him. Lee lined up his gun sight and pulled the trigger, sending his foe to earth in flames.

Lee circled and confirmed the kill, before climbing back into the air-born brawl.

The bomber formation was in complete disarray now. The remaining bombers scattered, breaking their thick cage of defensive fire. However, Osean forces still could not shoot them down with impunity. Belkan escort fighters buzzed in the fur ball like vengeful hornets, knocking down the inexperienced Osean nuggets with relative ease. Lee watched as a P-40 attempted to swoop on a 112, only to be knocked from the sky by a 110. He had to get into the dogfight and even the odds. The battle hadn't been won yet.

"Wolf 2-3 and Wardog 3-4, form on me." He ordered, calling two nearby pilots. They formed on his wings.

The first pilot, Wolf 2-3, was the same pilot who had shot down the Belkan bomber lead, and Wardog 3-4 was one of the more accomplished rookies. Lee hoped they could both hold their own as they engaged.

"Wolf 2-3 reporting, call sign King of Hearts." The first pilot reported, his husky voice growling over the radio receiver.

"Wardog 3-1 reporting, call sign Samurai." The second one reported. His voice was shaky, laden with fear, but his flying didn't show it.

"Roger that. Stick close and cover my six. We're going to play with those escorts." Lee half rolled and dove into the fur ball, dodging streams of gunfire and flak bursts, cutting holes through the thick contrails of oily smoke. Fighters weaved this way and that, a chaotic dance of angels and demons.

"King, requesting permission to engage!" The wolf pilot declared.

"Granted!' Lee permitted, before rolling to avoid a Belkan heavy fighter.

The wolf pilot dove around, his twin 50 caliber machine guns shredding a Belkan fighter. He whooped and swooped around to pursue another target.

Lee found a new target of his own. A Belkan 112, who was sitting on the tail of an Osean P-36. He climbed to intercept, sending a quick burst into the foreign pilot. His engine sputtered and died, leaving him to glide back home. Lee didn't pursue.

The remaining bombers had jettisoned their bombs, and were turning for home. Many of them sported horrendous wounds; such as torn fuselages and dead, flaming engines. The escorts strained to cover their withdrawal.

"We got them on the run!" One Osean cheered. The others joined him. They all broke formation to pursue the wounded bombers. Lee cursed.

"Stay back! Don't pursue!" Lee dodged a Belkan attacker, before returning his attention to his men. Most of them did listen, but several continued on, only to have their wings melt in the proverbial sun. Belkan fighters tore into the disorganized Oseans, sending them back to earth in smoking wrecks.

"Fuck… Lee cursed, watching from above. There was nothing he could do. He was running low on fuel and ammunition.

"All pilots, return to base. We've done all we can." Lee sighed, before noticing that King was still on his wing. "Wolf 2-3, you can return to your flight lead." Lee informed him.

"Negative Captain. He's dead. Along with the rest of my flight. I'll hang with you."

Lee sighed and didn't argue. His wing was a man short, after all..

"Well then, your new designation is Wardog 1-2. Welcome aboard…?" Lee deadpanned.

"My name is Bartlett. Hank Bartlett."

Lee nodded to himself. "Welcome to Wardog Squadron."

The surviving Oseans were forming up once more. The impressive squadron had been reduced by half, and a somber mood persisted despite the victory. Only the strong and the cunning had survived. Too Lee's relief, both Dean and Inferno had survived the battle, both pilots joining the formation.

"Who's the new guy?" Of course, Dean always had something to say. Lee merely chuckled softly. Something had definitely not changed. "I'll tell you later, when we get back to Neil."

"What ever man." Dean responded.

The formation banked south, the rising sun to their east.

"Let's go home."


End file.
